The Pull Out King
by Ho Hey Contest
Summary: A silly sad story about everything going to hell, kleptomania, cry-babies and finding a place.
1. Chapter 1

**The Ho Hey Contest**

**Title: The Pull Out King**

**Pen Name: Jandco**

**Pairing: ExB **

**Rating: M…ish?**

**Word Count: 20,000 give or take a few added or lost. But I swear it's in the limits.**

"His name is Felix. He's Latin, you know? And he works for Epic Records. Real music, Edward," Tanya said, crouched between my knees, her eyebrows raised in concern as she talks softly, looking up at me.

I just stared at her mouth.

It's a strange thing, when your girlfriend is explaining why she's leaving, more specifically, who she's leaving you for. Part of my brain can't understand why she'd think I'd want to know anything about the guy. The other part of my brain can't take in enough information about the guy. It must be an ego thing, "who is better than me? How is he better? Why? And what can I do to be best again?"

I just stared and decided it was psychological torture. I mean, she's been screwing both of us, obviously he scores higher than me; torturous, how I can't help but compare myself to Epic Latin. She keeps talking and all I can see is an olive skinned guy in one of those romantic pirate shirts with puffy sleeves and sporting a long, dark curly ponytail, mispronouncing his R's. I don't know how he's better, I just know he is.

Tanya stands up and grabs this big, awful canvas bag she bought at Target with Jimi Hendrix's face emblazoned on it. It's got all of her crap in it, everything she bought to this particular table over the past two years and I swear, I think I see one of my t-shirts rumpled up on the top.

But I don't say anything, I just watch while she cries and explains she couldn't help it. She fell in love with him, it was the internship. Apparently, Felix is just so smart and kind and he can really help her get ahead. He's taking her to Santa Barbara, where he'll fuck her in a bed and breakfast on the ocean. She didn't say that part, but it's implied.

"You've just been so…stuck, lately," she whispers, her fingers grabbing my thigh, a tear slides down the bridge of her nose. I blink and clutch the remote control in my hand. "Maybe Felix can help with the shop…maybe when I get officially hired at Epic, there will be something I can do to help or…Edward? I want you to be happy again."

"I'm not unhappy," I say, and it hurts my throat.

She smiles lamely and pats the side of my face, like I'm a naïve kitten. And maybe I am, because I let her hands linger all over me. I briefly contemplate asking for a goodbye handjob. Once she goes, I won't even put the effort in to getting myself off, much less charming anyone else in to doing it for me. But I don't, because the thought of getting and maintaining a boner right now is just exhausting.

"Maybe not unhappy," she finally says. "Maybe not…anything."

She'd just essentially called me nothing and I didn't even feel the insult, thus proving the truth. I was nothing, anymore. It wasn't that I was unhappy, I just wasn't happy. I wasn't…anything.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay what?"

"All of it," I shrugged.

Tanya sighed and sunk back off her knees to sit on her butt at my feet. This meant it was time for a long conversation in which she talked about worrying and feelings…but it occurred to me she just dumped me and the one perk of that was we didn't have to have this conversation. I didn't tell her to be quiet or ask her to leave, I let her talk while I traced over the soft, rubber buttons of the remote control.

1,2,3, MUTE. 1,2,3 MUTE. 1,2,3, MUTE.

"Please?"

"What?"

"Please be okay? I hate leaving you like this…at the same time, Edward, it's draining the life out of me to stay with you."

"Sorry."

Tanya sighed and braced her hands on my thighs, pulling herself up before kissing my lips briefly. Mine stayed slack.

There was a short, curt but piercing honk in the driveway.

"That's…my ride," she said, looking back at me over her shoulder.

"Okay."

"Jesus!" she shouted, yanking on her own ponytail.

I jumped in my chair at her abrupt shout.

"Any normal guy would stand up! See the guy who's been banging your girlfriend! Go out there and threaten him, Edward…fight for me," she said, finishing weakly. "When did you stop giving a damn?"

I wasn't sure exactly when. And it's not that I didn't give a damn, or maybe it was. I was sorry to see her go, I really was.

She heaved the bag up again, swiped under her eyes and whispered goodbye.

I wanted to tell her to stay. I even said it, but she didn't hear me.

She would've heard any _normal_ guy.

Her bag swung back when she opened the door and I raised my hand and limply waved goodbye to Jimmy Hendrix's pained face before the door slammed and they were gone.

After awhile I got up and shuffled to the kitchen. I grabbed a Tupperware full of three day old spaghetti, snapped the lid off and looked inside. It was all limp noodles and dried up ground meat, clumps of crystallized looking tomato sauce. It was depression tucked and lumped inside of an oblong plastic container. I opened the freezer and took out a bottle of vodka, because it seemed like I should be having a drink after being dumped by my long term girlfriend of an Epic Latin Lover.

Problem was, I didn't much feel like it.

I didn't much feel like warming up the spaghetti or browsing the internet for rare vinyl for the shop inventory or taking a walk or a shower or sleeping or breathing…I hadn't felt like doing any of that in a long time and frankly, I doubted I'd ever feel like doing any of it again. I couldn't foresee any kind of…light at the end of the tunnel. It's all just a tunnel. It's all just a dark, long, staggering tunnel that you just kind of walk through because that's all there is.

And I just didn't fucking feel like it.

I took the bottle with me into the bathroom to take a piss, because even in the tunnel, a guy's got needs. Still, taking a leak was something I really didn't want to be bothered with, either. I stared at myself in the mirror over the toilet. It had been cracked when we moved in and I hadn't bothered to fix it. It made me look fractured in two. I sighed and still couldn't be bothered to fix it.

I turned my chin up and inspected the beard I hadn't intended to grow from all angles, then looked at my greasy hair. I blinked one eye and opened them both really wide. If I did that, I could make my eyelashes tangle in with the ends of my hair that hung down my forehead.

I shook my dick twice and didn't bother flushing the toilet, then slowly reached for the cracked mirror, pulling it open, revealing the medicine cabinet.

Tanya'd left a tube of lipstick in there and HYPOALLERGENIC OIL FREE EYE MAKE UP REMOVER. I took it out, unscrewed the blue top and sniffed it before tossing it into the overflowing wastepaper basket at the side of the sink. The lipstick went next. I grabbed a bottle of perfume and sprayed the air just in front of my nose, breathing in floral sugar, sneezing, then tossing it out. There was an old tube of travel sized toothpaste in there, blue gel gunked up around the cap. I tossed it as well, then a rusty looking disposable razor sitting in a rusty puddle. Next went the empty pink compact that used to hold Tanya's birth control pills. I flipped it open and made it flap like a bird, the sides clacking together a few times before I tossed it.

God, it was a boring medicine cabinet.

If a medicine cabinet represents someone's life, and I've heard it does, mine sorely sucked. I mean, it was now half empty and the only thing left were orange bottles filled with chemical happy.

Christ. That's my life.

Half empty and chemical happy.

That realization didn't really motivate me one way or another. It was just there. Just like everything else.

I grabbed a few bottles, Xanax, Zoloft, Lorazepam, okay, I grabbed all of them. Then the cabinet was empty. The glass shelves were mottled with chips and gunky stuff, gobs of toothpaste and shaving cream.

I looked up again at the cabinet, holding the bottles to my chest, cradling them like my last little baby possessions.

It was now empty but still dirty and if this was still symbolic of my life…well. I'd just emptied it out…to full empty, not half empty.

I shifted the bottles to the crook of my arm, still holding them to me and shut the cracked mirror door.

I looked at my fractured image again, leaning in over the sink.

I tried out a smile, then grimaced when I saw what a liar I looked like with that smile.

There were tears on the outer corners of my eyes; it's hard to see a grown man cry, it's harder to see yourself as a grown man crying.

I put my free hand up to the mirror and curled my fingers to myself, offering a goodbye to me.

Then I flipped myself the bird and stumbled out of there, holding on to my pills and shuffling down the hall to the bedroom.

There was only one place I could see myself being forever and ever and ever. There's this notch in the bed, it's an old mattress, and the middle sags. I'd had that mattress forever, since I was about fourteen. I always slept in the middle, then Tanya started sharing that bed and we each had a side and the sag notch wasn't accessible, only during solo naps and when, well, when I stopped getting out of bed most days.

It was fit just for me, just like the permanent indent in my pillow, and it's not that I wanted to be there, that I longed for it, it's just the only place I could stand to be. It's the only thing I felt like doing. Probably for forever if the past few months were any indication of the future.

I sat on the bed, right in the notch and unscrewed all of the caps on all of the orange bottles and dumped the remainder of the pills in between my spread legs.

It reminded me of sitting on the floor on Halloween nights, after Trick-or-Treating, but before lights out. Dumping out all of the candy, marveling at king sized candy bars and scoffing at pennies. I used to organize the candy buy chocolate, gum, hard candies and Tootsie rolls.

I didn't even consider separating the pills, I couldn't feel the same excitement for them as I'd felt for the candy. I couldn't feel excitement like that at all. I almost wondered if I'd ever even had Halloween nights like that. Maybe I'd made them all up. Maybe I'd conjured up every smile I've ever had. But then, I think, if I had, I wouldn't know that something was missing. I think.

I was so tired of thinking.

I unscrewed the vodka and took a Xanax.

Then another one.

Then a Lorazepam.

Then a Zoloft and then another Xanax, because there were more of those, just like a surplus of tootsie rolls, it made sense to eat more of those because I had so many.

I don't know how long I sat there, eating and drinking, but I know I got bored of it soon enough and laid down right in the notch, pulling the covers to my chin and sinking in to the most perfect spot.


	2. Chapter 2

"Don't like Mondays, huh?" Emmett asked me, his big finger jamming down on the G elevator button while he balanced two huge coffee take out cups and a white paper bag. I stared as the doors slid closed, then used the flimsy hospital bracelet around my wrist to scratch my eyebrow.

My head still hurt, it was like the hangover from hell that wouldn't leave. My stomach still hurt from the pumping and forced ejection of everything I've ingested since the mid nineties and my mind was sore from the past seventy two hours of suicide watch.

I ignored the Geldof line and stood quietly next to Emmett, who'd come to pick me up. He was also the one to bring me in.

Apparently, Tanya had called Emmett and said to check in on me because she was worried and by the time Emmett got there, I was resting nicely in the bed notch and my own vomit.

Over the past three days I tried to explain on three separate occasions I wasn't necessarily suicidal, but no one really accepted that. Instead, I stayed in a room for three days while some guy who I'm pretty sure isn't a doctor made sure I didn't strangle myself with my bare hands. Because that would be the only suicide option as they took away my shoelaces and my keys and everything else.

I didn't mind staying there, I would've preferred being at home, in the notch, but it's not like there was anything pressing I needed to get out for.

Just across the hospital parking lot there were a few benches and even some round tables covered huge, yellow sun umbrellas, in case anyone just felt like hanging around the back of a hospital parking lot, I supposed. When we sat there to wait for a cab, it occurred to me the seating might have been a good idea; for people who didn't have anywhere better to be. People like me.

Emmett dumped the contents of the paper bag on the bench between us and shoved a sandwich wrapped in mustard stained wax paper toward me.

It crinkled in my lap when I un-wrapped it and it didn't taste like much of anything, aside from a big brick I was trying to shove down my throat.

"Remember when my grandpa was dying of Alzheimer's and he'd sit in his wheelchair in that nasty old sweater that smelled like piss and he looked confused, like, all the time? And he was quiet but then all of the sudden he'd freak out and go ballistic and his favorite new word was fuck-face?" Emmett asked, eyeing me carefully.

"Yeah?"

"And he forgot who everyone was and tried to hit on my mom and we'd laugh at it all until shit would hit the fan and he'd do something really crazy, like the time he lit his own face on fire trying to light a non-existent cigarette or the time he got lost and tried to take a plane to my grandma who died in 1987?"

"Get to whatever you're getting at," I told him, watching the cars in the lot pull in and pull out, carefully navigating around one another.

Emmett leaned over and tugged on green wool of my scratchy, tattered cardigan and narrowed his eyes.

"You look exactly like him."

"What does that even mean?" I asked.

"It means," he said, "if there's a deep end, you're laying face down right at the bottom of it."

I stared out at the parking lot while Emmett stared at me, then I pulled a tissue some nurse had balled up and stuck up my sleeve to wipe my nose.

"I've got a cold," is what I told him by way of explanation.

Emmett looked at me with this dubious expression, slack jawed and everything before he picked up my uneaten sandwich and chucked it in the overflowing trashcan next to us.

"I think that's our cab," he said, standing, nodding to where a taxi was idling across the lot, waiting.

In the taxi, I looked out the window, watching everything pass me by while Emmett spoke about our underwater business that was now an underwater business soon-to-be bank owned.

"You remember today is Saturday, right?" he asked, his knuckles tapping on the back window.

"We have calendars in the deep end," I remarked and he paused, with a surprised smile.

"That was funny," he said gently, like I was a toddler telling my first knock-knock joke.

I put my head in my left hand and used my right one to wave along his conversation.

"The doctor at the hospital said not to leave you alone in case you decide to use a meat cleaver to cut your own heart out or something so you gotta come in to the shop, we can't postpone the big Everything Must Go sale, unless we want to be in two hundred percent debt, instead of just a hundred percent debt," Emmett said.

I knew all of this.

The Pull-Out Kings went under, going, going, gone for the last year or so. All inventory must go in order to try to pay what we could off, before the bank came in and turned it in to a Home Depot. I shit you not, a _Home Depot,_ because it's only right that people use our busted up, broke down dream to improve their home sweet homes. It was only right that some J Crew newly-married guy named Chip or Chad or whatever pick out the perfect vinyl siding with his pregnant real-estate agent wife right where the Gangsta Rap collection used to stand.

Maybe I was bitter.

It just seemed like a dart in the neck, man, to have a chain home-dream-life improvement establishment planted right on top of everything I failed at.

But that was fine.

We knew going in to this venture four years ago we probably wouldn't make it.

It was fine.

It was only every cent I'd ever earned and every cent I had yet to earn and my teenage dream and the only thing I'd ever put any kind of effort in and my life plan and I was now in romantic and financial ruin by the age of twenty four and all that; but it was fine.

"That's fine," I told Emmett.

"You don't have to do anything," he told me, "just hang out in the back."

"I'm in the middle of organizing R&B," I said.

Emmett gave me a funny look and smiled.

"Okay, you just keep…doing that. But you know it doesn't really matter anymore, right?" he asked slowly.

That, it seemed, was the problem with everything lately: It doesn't really matter anymore.

"Just don't, you know, stress out about it. Any of this shit," Emmett said. "We already been through all that. Just…it is what it is."

I leaned forward so my forehead rested against the back of the vinyl passenger seat.

"Tanya is screwing that douche bag from Epic Records," I said, trying for a change of subject but I didn't really have a subject that wasn't part of the destruction of my life.

"I know it," Emmett sighed. "You alright?"

I was still wearing hospital issued socks, the kind with the rubber grips on the bottom with cuffs that didn't even reach my ankles. I had a clinically painful headache, my girl left with some asshole who actually knew how to conduct a successful career and I was headed to the one place I had left, only to close it up.

"I don't think I love her anymore."

"Well," Emmett laughed, "that's probably a good thing."

But was it? I don't even recall falling out of love and four days ago, I would've said I did love her, but it was hard to say if that was habit, comfort, true or a lie.

"She said to fight for her," I went on, rolling my forehead along the vinyl of the seat now, my eyes on my knees.

"So? You don't love her so you didn't fight for her?" Emmett asked.

"I was too tired," I sighed and the taxi fell silent for a moment until my whole body was jolted with Emmett's loud, boisterous laugh.

Looking up and out the window again, I noticed the police were starting to tape up the streets, the kids were all coming out with their tattoos and piercings and hand woven clothes, slopping and shuffling up and down the streets with poorly concealed, cheaply mixed cocktails in various water bottles.

"The street fair," I commented, my fingertips touching the pane of glass. I felt a nostalgic smile tug my lips as I watched them all, the freaky individuals all exactly alike, full of this idealistic kind of wonder, possibility and hope.

I remembered the first time I heard Eighteen by Alice Cooper I felt the same way; the way I felt when I met Tanya at a Social Distortion concert and fell for her dread locks and her views on shock art and the way she sucked dick; the way I felt when Emmett and I sat down with a composition notebook and drew up a rough, uneducated business plan for The Pull-Out Kings—the way I felt when I felt anything was possible. The way I felt before I knew better, that there aren't possibilities, only impossibilities that are rarely surmountable.

Suddenly, I wanted to save all those kids from certain heartbreak, so I rolled the window down, stuck my head out and screamed at them.

"It's all bullshit!" I shouted. "Start flipping burgers and wear condoms, because whoever, I mean WHOEVER you love is probably going to give you heartbreak and syphilis! It's all bullshit!"

A group of kids raised their water bottles to me and started cheering and someone told me to piss off. I sat back in the seat and sighed.

"Oh, good. You haven't gone completely crazy," Emmett said, leaning over me to roll the window back up.

"Look at them," I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. "They're just so…naïve."

"Would you have listened?" Emmett asked. "If someone told you all that shit, would you have listened back then?"

I blinked at him. Of course I wouldn't have. I was going to change the world and live my dream, using my parent's twenty grand in start-up capital that I have yet to pay back, which they gave reluctantly, along with a speech about how small businesses rarely succeed, especially in this economy, and even if they do, it's years before you see profit.

I just had such energy, then. I just was so sure.

"Don't go piss on their idealism," Emmett told me. "It makes the world a better place."

Maybe. But it also makes it crappier when you fall from your ideals.

"If we could go back…would you have just stayed in school?" I asked Emmett, lolling my head toward him to wait for his answer.

"No. I learned a lot—"

"No, don't give me bullshit about character building and lessons learned. We're fucked. Would you change it?"

"No. And you wouldn't either."

I cast another glance back at the kids in the streets, hooping and hollering, sunshine or youth lighting up there fresh faces, and suddenly I was so damned nostalgic for that time in life. I didn't want to know better anymore.

"I don't know," I mused in response to Em. "Is it better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?"

"Are we back on Tanya again?" Emmett asked, thoroughly confused.

"No," I sighed. "I don't know. What I mean is, I don't know if it's better to fall from idealism or to have never known it at all."

"Of course it's better to fall. Those were amazing days," Emmett shrugged.

That was the point, I thought, but I didn't say it.

We pulled up in front of the shop, a red bricked warehouse, covered in local band fliers, bumper stickers proclaiming every band from Unwritten Law to Kenny Rogers, posters, graffiti murals and one huge, black and hot-pink neon sign shouting "CLEARANCE! EVERYTHING MUST GO! DOORS CLOSING!"

Underneath the sign, someone had scrawled RIP in thick, black marker. I put my eyes on the sidewalk and shuffled past all of it.

"Cullen?" Em asked, side eyeing me as he swung the door open, our little bell jingling.

"Hm?"

"You're gonna be okay," he said, nodding his head, ushering me in.

I nodded back, not too sure about anything.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx

I sat in a stool at the register counter and Alice sat on the other side of me, her elbows on the counter top, her fists holding up her little face. She had a neon green, cloth flower in her black hair, hurting my eyes, but I stared back at her anyway.

"I heard you caught her blowing Radioheads roadie," Alice said.

"That's not true. Well, it's not true that I caught her, but she might have."

"Is it true you put arsenic in your orange juice?" Alice asked.

"I'm allergic to oranges."

"All the better to suicide yourself," Alice shrugged.

I shrugged back, she made a good point, though I was pretty sure "suicide yourself" wasn't grammatically correct.

"You should've called me, I would've told you you were better off. She was a terrible person. Once she ate half a sandwich I had in the fridge. _It was labeled with my name_," Alice said, narrowing her eyes. "You can't trust someone that will eat someone else's labeled lunch. She wouldn't mind if I starved, that says a lot about a person."

"I guess."

"But that's not why you did it," Alice went on, then reached across the counter and scratched the top of my head. "Work on your headsick, please, I couldn't stand it if you died."

"Okay, Al," I said.

I felt so small right then. Like tiny. Little Alice, who I'd actually hired in myself (kind of), was leaning across from me, looking all concerned, like she wanted to give me a glass of milk and cover me with a blanket.

Alice had first clomped into the shop three years ago, when she was sixteen years old, with ripped up jeans, a torn up Debbie Gibson t-shirt, a rather painful looking piercing through her septum and a pissed off scowl.

She'd asked for an application and I told her we weren't hiring. We weren't. Emmett and I were barely eating ourselves, there was no way we could pay anyone to actually work for us.

She actually flipped me the bird and started alphabetizing the albums that were misplaced in the shelves. The next day the kid came in with a feather duster and dusted the place down without a word. Every day Alice came in and just made up work to do; by the end of that month she was on the payroll which meant Emmett bought lunch back for her and she ate with us at the table in the backroom. Her home life is shit. She doesn't bitch about it or go on about it, but there's this kind silent understanding that it is, so sometimes, she sleeps on the couch in the back and a few times Em or I have bought her home to crash on one of our couches.

We eventually got around to putting her on the payroll, but then, things went full circle and we were pretty much right where we started.

Alice leaned on the counter again and beckoned me forward. She had a huge purple hickey on her neck from Jasper, our business accountant. I had deep disdain for Jasper based solely on the bad news and warnings he was always spouting at me and Emmett. I pointed at Alice's hickey, but she slapped my hand away then slapped her hand over her hickey.

"Does he shout tax exemption codes when he comes?" I asked, but my heart wasn't really in it. Didn't matter anyway, it's like, impossible to offend Alice.

"You should be nicer to Jasper," she sniffed, "he tried like hell to save this place."

With that my forehead went back on the counter and I tightened my sweater around myself, I wished I could wish to be someplace else, but the truth was, there was nowhere I really wanted to be at all. I didn't couldn't even imagine a nice place to be, I mean.

"I'm moving in with him," Alice announced and I rubbed my hand across my chest, hidden in the sweater. Jasper wore tortoise shell glasses and blazers with elbow patches over vintage work shirts, like they were his uniform. They always had name patches that said "Bill" or "Stuart" or "Mick" on them. I used to think Jasper was a coward because by day, he's an accountant, but we all know he's a face melting drummer; my line of thinking was Jasper was too chicken shit to try to make a career out of drumming, but I'm beginning to realize Jasper was just smart to go to school to be an accountant. I mean, sure, he settled, but he's got a place with furniture and somewhere for Alice to go. Which is more than I could ever offer her. He played the game of life safe and smart and it worked; hell if that isn't the most depressing revelation I ever had.

It just isn't supposed to be like that, but that is exactly how it is.

And that's what depresses the hell out of me.

"I have to go pull the cassettes off the shelves and toss 'em in the nickel bin," Alice told me, hopping off her stool. "Doors open in five. Look alive."

I lifted my head, showed my teeth and put it back down until a finger poked my cheek. Without actually lifting my face, I turned my head to meet the gaze of Rosie, Emmett's very pregnant wife and original investor in The Pull Out Kings. And by original investor I mean she emptied her college fund and gave it to us.

It was hard to look her in the eye; I had no idea how Emmett was still sleeping with her without crying in humiliation.

"Breaking up is hard to do," Rosie said, her chin in the palms of her hands, her smile limp.

"Thank you?" I responded.

"I have to ask," she said, "did you want to die?"

I put my chin on my folded hands atop the counter and tried to come up with the right answer, but there wasn't one. Saying what I meant, which was "it didn't matter" would only serve to raise red flags; I knew that, I suppose everyone would know that. I mean, things like _intending or not to die _should matter.

"It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out," I told her with a wry smile.

Rosalie smiled and put her hand on the top of my head.

"You can't Lennon your way out of your own bullshit, Edward. But I adore you for trying."

I shrugged and pulled my sweater closer.

"You can always call me or Emmett. We love you, you know that?" she asked, too softly.

"I know it."

And I did. It had nothing to do with not feeling loved.

"I brought breakfast," she said, standing back up and holding a white paper bag up. "It's full of grease and nitrates. I figured if you were okay with killing yourself anyway…"

"Death by bacon would be a divine way to meet divinity," I smiled. "I'll be back there. Soon."

She cast one last look and wandered to the back, where Emmett and Alice were packing us up to shut us down.

I looked around the store for a second, and to anyone, I suppose, it'd look like an eclectic, mod warehouse, shelf upon shelf of genres and sub-genres, autographs scrawled on steel beams, various Polaroids of me, Em, Alice and Rosie, posing with local and a-bit-better-than-local musicians, posters and stickers, buttons, tags, framed ticket stubs, a mural Tanya had painted of treble clefs, piano keys and an Anarchy symbol—this was my _home_.

Tanya leaving sucked. And not because I'd miss her or because I was broken hearted, though maybe I was, but because it was just one more failure. It was just one more lost love this week, she was one more notch on my belt of "over." But the good news was it was already Thursday and I really didn't have much else to lose.

I was pulled from the septic tank of my mind when the bells chimed and I looked up thinking, "I swear to god, I'm going to miss that noise." It probably would be too pathetic to take that little bell with me and hang it in my apartment door.

Sometimes, you think you realize a defining moment or a pivotal point in your life, like when you wake up under suicide watch in a hospital or when your long-term girlfriend walks out on you for a Latin Lover.

And sometimes, you don't even know anything is happening at all, and only in hindsight does it become clear that _that_ was the moment that everything changed.

This was one of those moments.

She had short hair, tucked behind her ears, but the front of it was combed like a greaser from the 1950's, bright red lips and the head of a chrysanthemum tucked into the button hole of her worn, red corduroy jacket. Underneath that jacket was a mustard yellow t-shirt, and underneath that was no bra. Her tarnished belt buckle wanted to shine brightly in the sun, but all it could manage was a muted, coppery glare.

I watched her hesitate before squaring her shoulders, taking a deep breath and walking with purpose toward the counter.

"I have to return something," she said, loudly.

"No refunds aside from faulty merchandise and even then the best I can do is offer an exchange as store policy has been amended due to our imminent demise, though as part owner of this establishment I'm proud and pleased to inform you that we don't have faulty merchandise though that has never stopped anyone from claiming otherwise, so please have your receipt available upon stating your complaint," I gave her the stock response with a few amendments before she even reached the counter.

"No, no," she said quickly, then dumped the contents of her multi-colored crocheted bag on the counter, her eyes flicked to mine, then I turned mine to the junk-mess on the counter. Gum wrappers, a few Dum-Dum suckers, random pieces of scribbled on scrap paper, about four thousand matchbooks, a key-ring with sixteen million keys attached, a pad-lock, and a rolling red bouncy ball now littered the already littered space.

"Don't arrest me," she said, quick and cautious, holding both hands up, her eyes wide, like she was talking to a wild animal caught in barbed wire or something.

"For making a mess?" I scoffed. "I don't think this is an offense that warrants incarceration."

She pulled a pinched, wincing face and started picking through the junk, finally holding up a black and red key chain that looked almost familiar.

"I stole this from this store four years ago," she blurted out, shoving it at me. The keychain hung between us, still in her extended grasp.

"Okay?"

"No, that's just it. Not okay. I love this place and two days ago I'm waiting in line at that sandwich place on Steele Road, you know, the new one that claims if you aren't satisfied with your sandwich and their daily fresh deli meats they'll give you a free one, which makes no sense, like at all, because if you didn't like it in the first place, why the hell would you go back for another round?"

"I think the theory behind the concept is that—"

"Shh. This is really hard for me so don't talk, okay? Okay. I'm in line because they forgot the avocado on my sandwich, note my dissatisfaction by the way, and on the corkboard I saw a flier for The Pull-Out Kings Everything Must Go, close out, near death, doomsday sale and it's possible, well, I mean, it's probable the entire thing is my fault. I stole this four years ago, I was eighteen, I don't think I'm a kleptomaniac, but maybe I am, either way I stole this," she said again, shoving the keychain closer to my face. "Take it back. Please. It's killing me. The things been a huge weight in my purse since I found out about your closing. And I'm sorry, okay? Don't look at me like that. I'm sorry. I was in a weird place emotionally at the time, okay?"

"You stole from me?" I asked, my eyes narrowing as it sunk in. I don't recall ever having such a shitty week.

"Yes. And I'm taking responsibility for it, like a decent person. I'm of the opinion that under certain circumstances the conscience is able to police itself. So don't have me arrested. Please."

"I'm pretty sure there's some kind of statute of limitations on petty shoplifting."

"Right…about that whole petty thing. I mean, did you know charges change from misdemeanor to felony based on the dollar amount worth of said stolen item?" she asked, with a nervous shrug of her shoulders.

"Yes."

"Oh. I didn't know that," she kind of hummed and I leaned across the counter to snatch the keychain from her grasp.

"This store didn't go under because you stole a ninety-nine cent keychain four years ago," I told her, not to comfort her, but because I had a sinking feeling she had plenty more to confess.

"Haven't you ever heard of the butterfly effect?" she asked, incredulous. "What if I stole this keychain that I could have paid for with a buck and a nickel, but I didn't, and like, a billionaire walked in seconds later, looking for singles for one of his thousand dollar bills or whatever and you were short singles because I didn't pay for the keychain, but had you had the singles he would've stuck around and waited for the change and when he did he'd notice what a really fucking amazing thing you've got going on here and offered to invest, like, a million dollars into the place? But I didn't buy that keychain so that never happened and it's probable this place going under is entirely, completely my fault," she ranted, then crossed her arms over her chest. "It is, you know. Amazing."

"You're full of shit. What else did you steal?" I asked, crossing my own arms, my mind racing back to the time Emmett and I got into it about what on earth could've happened to the framed napkin signed by Kurt Cobain and Pat Smear or the time we ripped the entire stock room apart searching for the Live at Leeds album signed by both Daltrey and Townsend, or when Emmett and Rosalie went on their Honeymoon to Cali and somehow gotten their hands on a piece of paper Tupac Shakur had written never recorded lyrics on or the time Elvis Costello stopped in, took a Polaroid with us and left The Pull-Out Kings a love letter, both of which were now missing, written off as lost in the abyss of my irresponsible, disorganized pool of many, many fuck ups.

"About that," she said, clearing her throat, "altogether, there were five items."

I knew exactly which five they were. I put my head back in my hands and rubbed my eyes, having a pretty good idea of why she was here with a fucking chintzy keychain and not the four that were worth anything.

"They're all gone?" I asked, because I had to.

When I looked up, she was just standing there, chewing the side of her cheek, digging in her jacket pocket. She handed me a coupon for a free sandwich from the crappy sandwich place, I tossed it on her pile of junk.

"Just…get out," I told her.

"You sure? The sandwiches aren't crappy, they just forgot the avocado and everyone makes mistakes," she said, a nod of her head.

"I'm aware," I dryly commented, looking her up and down.

"Well. Thank you for understanding. I'm really sorry. About this place going down and taking the stuff and all of it. I'm really sorry."

"Just…it doesn't really matter. Just go because it might matter to my partner, who is in back and has no problem pressing charges."

She quickly picked up the pen, which, ironically enough was actually hooked to the table by a small, beaded chain so no one would steal it, then scrawled something on the back of the coupon.

I watched as she folded the paper and leaned over to toss it in to the "win a free album of your choice once a month" drawing jar.

I didn't bother to tell her that contest was no longer in existence.

"Seriously?" I asked instead. She stole a bunch of crap and now she wanted free crap, too?

She shrugged, tossed her junk back into her bag and left without another word.

All day long the Street Fair kids came in and out, waving their friends over when they found their treasures for ridiculously cheap. A couple of guys came to the register and actually gushed about how fucking excited they were about their finds. I rung them up with the kind of resent that made me reconsider my position on homicide in general.

Their really good fucking day was the demise of my financial and emotional well being.

So that was awesome.

There was a stretch of day I used to not organize the R&B inventory, but instead chuck it all into dust covered orange milk crates.

Jasper stopped by with some guy and they put a For Sale sign, a big vinyl sticker on the front windows. I took down the one No Smoking sign we had in the place and chain smoked cigarettes until finally, the lights went out and the sun had long set.

Then we piled on coats and Alice wore the same bright orange hat she always did in the winter and we all walked down a few blocks to a little pub that's just on the outskirts of downtown. I didn't particularly want to go. Emmett, Rosalie and I went there after our first full day at the shop, five years ago. Emmett and I sat in the back right corner of that dark, smoky bar talking for hours about huge and small details when we were still in the planning stages of Pull-Out Kings. We celebrated our highs there, we drowned in the lowest lows there, Tanya and I had made out like horny kids countless times there and now, it seemed, like it was ending there. I mean, it wasn't. We still had another week or so to go, but it sure seemed like it would be a fitting place to go and die or whatever.


	3. Chapter 3

Everything that followed was standard quarter-life crisis crap.

I lay in bed. I cried like a baby while I sprawled across the stained carpeting in my apartment, balancing a bottle of wine on my chest and an ashtray on my knee. I took a bath, an actual honest-to-goodness bath in my filthy tub until my fingers wrinkled and it was cold to stay in there any longer, but I did attempt to slip under the water, to see about that peaceful drowning bullshit people like to spout, but my legs were too long, and I was tired, so I gave up on it.

Tanya's friend Jane came around to gather some old books and a pair of boots Tanya claimed to have forgotten. Jane had thin, wispy blonde hair and wide blue eyes and she always smiled when she talked to me. Once, Tanya had told me she thought Jane wanted to sleep with me; I didn't think she was right, but it turned out she was, because Jane didn't leave with old books and a pair of boots. She actually stayed for two days, rode me four times and cleaned out my refrigerator, then told me if I wanted to be with her, I'd have to give up eating meat.

Thing is, I couldn't even remember saying like, four words to her in my entire life, much less the past two days. I don't know why she slept with me, but if I would've really reflected on myself, I think I slept with her just because when she was there, looking at me, I knew I was still there. That maybe I wasn't completely lost in my head or invisible or whatever.

Still, it was a shitty thing to do to poor old Janie, the look on her face when she asked me if she was a rebound was heart-cracking…what was worse is I hadn't even considered her _that_. It was strange, how she was like a lifeline in one way, but in another, she could've been anyone.

She spit on my floor on her way out. I smoked cigarettes and counted the butts to remind myself I was still there and in motion. It worked just as well as sleeping with Jane, and I hated myself for that, for being _that_ guy to a girl.

The thing about having your business go under is, yeah, it's sad. It's scary. But the absolute worst of it is it's utterly _humiliating._

When we started this venture, we'd certainly considered the fact that it wouldn't succeed, but never once did it occur to me that failing would feel so fucking humiliating. Not to mention it would come with dire hopelessness or feel like a big, black hole stretched and gaping from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

I always thought of myself as the type that would subscribe to the old adage "at least I tried."

I do not, but I sure wish I did. I wish I'd had the satisfaction of knowing I tried, knowing that had I not tried, I'd always wonder, but now I know.

The truth was I wish there was nothing to feel bad about and nothing to miss at all.

The week after closing, I had to call and borrow a thousand bucks from my parents, who looked at me from their floral print sofa in that exact way you never want your parents to look at you; it's this weird cross between disappointment and pity which is always, always followed with a talk about fiscal responsibility while they reluctantly hand you over a check that should feel like relief, but it feels like a million pounds in your hand. Then you make a futile promise to pay them back, but everyone in the room knows you won't but they nod anyway and then you feel obligated to stick around for lunch because they just gave you a thousand bucks so you can't just walk out but god; all you want to do is not have to be near them, not when they still have that look and you still have that check.

And it was just so awkward, sitting there with that check in my pocket staring down at a tomato and cheese sandwich on a dish with light blue daisies painted on it; feeling like I was a twelve years old but way too old to be this big of a fuck up at the same time. My mother put a glass of milk in front of me and my father sighed a lot.

"Have you thought about going back to school?" my mom asked, and at the very same time my father said, "they're hiring at KFC."

I stared at the sandwich on my plate until it was acceptable to leave, at which point I went home and watched The Price is Right for approximately seventeen hours.

People fresh from the psych ward of the hospital if admitted because of a suicide attempt aren't supposed to drink.

Luckily, I couldn't definitively say I attempted suicide. Attempting anything ever again was just not something I was up to doing; and it was a rough day, so though there were concerned glances, no one said much when I drank at the pub.

Or when I drank a lot at the pub.

Or when I was toe up wasted with my head on the mahogany table in the back, sweater wrapped tightly around me with a half empty glass in my clutch as the conversation inevitably turned to how, exactly, we were going to fix me.

Whiskey made my tongue loose and my thoughts fly free, the way only whiskey and love do.

"So what? You think you're too good to sling chicken?" Emmett asked as I recounted the week.

"No."

"So, go work at KFC then."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I think I might have ambition paralysis. I just can't see the point."

"The point is you have to make money for food and shelter."

"I can't really see the point of money and shelter, either. I just…don't give a fuck. Like, truly. For the first time ever, I seriously don't give a damn about anything. It'd be liberating…if I cared about being liberated."

"Is this the part where you ask us to drop you off at Beekler and Maine to 'meet up with a friend' that no one has ever heard of while you score meth with money you borrowed from your parents and claim latent teenage rebellion? Or the part where we bust out Cover Girl eyeliner in midnight black and all cry about how our dads fucked up our lives?"

"I'm not blaming—wait. How do you know you can buy meth at Bleeker and Maine?"

"Look, you're gonna need a job to pay me back for this tab. And I do give a damn. So, original or crispy?"

"He's right. You need a plan. Your girl left you for greener pastures, and by greener pastures I mean a bigger dick, your business went under and you tried to off yourself," Alice said, ticking the events of my super week off on her fingers, her own eyes swimming in gin and tonic. "I'm just saying…you need a plan."

"What kinda plan?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"Typically one has some kind of outlet for life crises," Alice shrugged, pulling on her stupid hat.

"Like the time you maintained a steady level of stoned for a month after the second time you were homeless?" I asked.

"Precisely," she beamed.

"You need to be in therapy," Rosalie cut in, and I swung my eyes to her. "If you deal with this in an unhealthy way and bottle it all up it will manifest in something terrible, like suicide or addiction or you'll shoot up Itunes headquarters or something. Tomorrow, I'll get you a few numbers."

I didn't have the heart to tell her I had no insurance or any kind of steady income. She just looked so damned earnest about therapy, I kept my mouth shut and swallowed my drink.

"You know what therapy got me?" Alice asked, pulling down on her orange hat, so I could barely even see her eyes.

"No," I shrugged.

"A couple grand in debt, bipolar disorder and a shrink who spent more time looking at my tits than speaking a word. If you want to go to therapy, I'll nod my head in silence and leer at your dick and I'll do it for free."

"Oh man. Thank you," I told her.

She grinned and Rosie huffed.

"You need help. I'll find you someone reputable," she said, glaring at Good Ol' Al, but that just started an argument between the two of them, so I lay my cheek back down on the table and gave a limp grin to Emmett, whose attention had turned to Keno.

A half hour later, we'd picked up old and new friends at the old table, all of whom kept buying us drinks and lamenting and celebrating the loss of our business and chanting about how Tanya was a bitch.

"_You're better off. Who the hell doesn't want a fresh start?"_

"_That fucking slut."_

"_But, Edward, now you're not saddled down with shit. You can move to motherfucking Amsterdam if you want. You got no strings. You got nothing."_

That one killed me.

I got nothing.

And then Emmett slid something across the table from me. The fishbowl full of numbers that used to sit on the counter of the Pull Out Kings for the monthly drawing.

"What?" I asked.

"It was your fishbowl," he shrugged.

I finished my drink, put the fishbowl under my arm and decided to head home even when everyone looked at me like that was a very bad idea and offered me rides and couches to crash on.

I was about six blocks from my building, trying to figure out exactly where things went so wrong, when it occurred to me.

The cute kleptomaniac stole from me and it probably led to my current crisis. She had probably set off a domino effect by taking that stuff, just like she said.

It was cold outside, the kind of cold that makes your legs ache and bites into your skin, but I'd had a few drinks and I hadn't felt much of anything for about six months or so, so I sat on the curb and dug through that fishbowl. I wasn't really sure what name I was looking for, but I was pretty sure that I'd know it when I found it. Sometimes, even though you know nothing, you just know anyway.

I sat there, tossing cards and scraps of paper in the gutter, disregarding everything I knew couldn't be it.

"Way to litter, Pig," some scrappy looking girl scoffed when she walked by with another, taller girl. I tossed a card at the back of her legs but it got caught in the cold, and sailed right down with the other garbage.

This went on and on until I couldn't feel my fingers and finally found a scrap of paper that said SorrySwan—and had a phone number scrawled on it.

Sorry.

It had to be her and if it wasn't, really, literally speaking, what did I have to lose?

I dug my phone from my pocket, briefly wondered how I'd keep it turned on next month, and dialed the number.

"Hell—"

"Are you the girl that stole from the Pull Out Kings?" I asked.

"Hell."

"It is you!"

"Listen—"

"You changed your mind about arresting me? Look. I said sorry. I can't go to jail or pick up trash by the freeway. I may have looked sturdy but I'm really frail. I only have six months to live and I'm taking care of my dying grandma and…kittens. I have…hempshchmeiheroisis, you wouldn't have heard of it and besides, haven't you ever heard of like, paying it forward? If you let this go—"

"You won the free album," I blurted out.

There was a pause and a rustle.

"How do I know you're not just luring me there to arrest me?"

"Are you always this paranoid?"

"Do I have reason to be?"

"Any album, your pick."

I don't know why I said it, I don't know why I was so adamant about seeing her again, and what, really, I wanted. She'd said sorry and I was never much of a grudge-holder. I had no idea what I wanted from this girl, I just really felt like someone should offer me some kind of justification for how crappy things have gotten.

"You're closed now, how can you be giving away free albums?"

"Because we're closed. Come pick anything. Everything. Whatever."

"For the record, I'm bringing a stun-gun because this doesn't sound legit. And because you have reason to want to commit bodily harm. But I'm also curious and like to think the best of people. I'll show up. Tomorrow at seven. What's your name?"

"Edward."

"I'm Bella. This feels like a secret meeting drug deal."

"I can't afford drugs."

"Right."

"So. Bye."

"Bye."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx

I saw her standing near the fountain in the center of the square, across from the former Pull-Out Kings, which was boarded up, or so I assumed. I couldn't look.

Bella had an old red handkerchief around her hair, dark shades in place and a wallet chain going from her hip to her ass. She wore a bright yellow sweater with the sleeves pushed up and was walking heel to toe on an imaginary line.

"Edward," she smiled when I started walking toward her with determination. "I'm thinking about an old Miles Davis I saw a few months back—"

"Pull Out Kings, the only thing I ever put any real part of myself into went to shit. Do you know how that feels? It feels like the shop wasn't a fucking loser, it must mean that I'm a fucking loser because if that's the only thing I ever really put my own heart into and it failed, then my heart must be worth shit. I see other people, who are really crappy people make big successes with their lives and I think that even though I think they're utter shit, I must be shittier, because at least they can, like, navigate life without everything imploding on them," I rushed out, pointing to my chest and drew a deep breath.

"I ended up in bed with some idiot vegan with a heart of gold because I thought it might help me in some weird way but it didn't and I think I broke her heart and I never, ever set out to do that or to fail at one more thing but I couldn't let her stay with me full of this weird kind of hope for something that I know is an impossibility. I can't even look at my friends anymore without my skin crawling and I'm not sure if it's because they're looking at me like I'm a time bomb or if it's because I am truly the pretentious prick I've always suspected I might be. Three weeks ago I ended up in the hospital because nothing in the whole fucking world mattered and I can't figure out if that makes me depressed or just a prick with way too high of standards but I walk down my street and I swear to God, I swear to you or to anyone that I'm lost even though I know exactly where I am. My girlfriend, who I know I must've loved at some point, took off to get off with some jerk who actually has his shit together and I hate that. I hate that either I wasn't good enough for her or she wasn't good enough for me, but mostly I feel like I've gone fucking crazy and it's all your fault."

Bella took that all in, much more calmly than I had any right to expect her to, then she shrugged.

"It's entirely possible. I'm a terrible person."

"Don't patronize me," I said, like a five year old who did, indeed, deserve to be patronized.

"I'm not. I was at The Pull-Out Kings the day before my grand confession to you. Only you weren't there. Some other guy was, but he didn't look like he'd take any shit. But then I saw you in there and you looked defeated and I saw the hospital bracelet. Yellow is for psych. So I told you because I knew you wouldn't really hold me accountable."

"You're a terrible person."

"I know. I'm also pretty sure I didn't really win a free album. So. I'll just…" she nodded her head, like she was going to just mosey away, but hell.

No way was I letting her go anywhere.

"You're going to help me," I told her, pointing a finger at her. "I'm getting my stuff back."

"I can say with ninety-nine percent certainty that while that's a really nice idea, it's also impossible."

"I'm riding on one percent, then. One percent is all I have. So start tracing your steps."

"And if we don't get all of it back?" she asked. "You what? Lose all hope and sit in a garage with the engine running?"

"No. I don't know. I just know I have to have that stuff back."

"How much is all this stuff actually worth?"

"That's a good question to ask after you stole it all."

"I said sorry!"

"I have no idea the monetary value. Probably nothing. It's probably worth nothing at all…but that's not the point. The point is….it's…if this can happen on a one percent chance, then something, I don't know what, but something about life is serendipitous and good and that's all I need to know."

"Hope."

"What?"

"You've lost hope and you're looking for a little. It happens to jaded people all the time."

"Philosophical cheese isn't on my menu today. What did you do with my stuff?"

"It'll be like a treasure hunt," she said, eyes suddenly lit up and she reached for my arm, kind of yanking on it and hugging it at the same time. "We're on the hunt! The Hope Hunt."

"I don't really—"

"Gosh," she sighed, "look at you. You're exactly my stereotypical type. By the time we're done, I'm going to be harboring a massive crush on you. You'll have to tell me your last name so I can spend my days Googling you."

I looked down at my jeans, hanging lower on my too narrow hips the past few weeks, the rubber shell on the tip of my tennis shoe had a ragged gash right over the small toe and my sweater had to have smelled. I couldn't smell it, but I haven't really washed it or taken it off, it can't have looked good. My fingernails were ragged and practically bleeding near the edges, maybe from the cold but I suspected I'd been biting my nails in my sleep. My hair hadn't been washed in days, my face hasn't been shaved in longer than that and I had thirty eight cents in my torn pack pocket.

"I'm in no shape to be anyone's type."

"That's exactly why. I'm very typical in that I swear to you, I will find the most soul shattered looking guy in a fifty mile radius—I mean, if you look exhausted and possibly hungry and sad and bleak and depressed, as though life, God and everyone who ever met you turned their backs on you at your lowest point, I get like, convinced I can save you just by sleeping with you and reading you poetry at night. When I saw the yellow bracelet on your wrist, I thought…Oh god. I want to make him soup and give him a hand-job."

"This was a mistake. I'm sorry—just….don't worry about the stuff," I told her, and turned to go. The last thing, the very last thing I wanted was to have to drag another girl into this, to hurt one more thing or fail at one more thing, but the way she was looking at me, I'd let her. Make the soup and give the hand-job. And then I'd feel even worse.

"Shit, wait," she said, waving her hands. "I came on too strong. I do that. It's an issue I'm working on."

"Along with the kleptomania?"

"I've got several," she said, ducking so her pretty smile disappeared in a pocket of shadow. "So, look. I swear I won't try to fix you via hasty seduction. Maybe we could just…look for a little of that hope together?"

My mouth pulled into this terrible frown and I didn't even know why.

Maybe it was the way she was standing there alone and I was standing there alone, or the way I never, ever thought I'd be _this _way and I had no idea which way I'd end up or how to get there.

"I don't know how to do that," I whispered, probably the most honest admission I'd ever made and I'd confessed it to a kleptomaniac stranger.

"It's okay," she said, then linked her arm with mine and was kind enough to turn her head to the sky when I used the back of my hand to wipe a splash of tear from the edge of my eye.


	4. Chapter 4

We were walking like not-so-long lost strangers through sort of familiar streets, as in, I knew these streets, the storefronts with blinking neon and where each public trashcan would be—but we were walking like we were lost or with absolutely no kind of destination, which was status-quo for me anyway.

I shifted the fishbowl to my other arm and Bella quickly linked her arm into my now free arm.

"Is that okay?" she asked, suddenly bashful.

"Yeah."

"Okay," she said, clearing her throat, "we start with the obvious."

"I have no idea what the obvious is."

"Kids," she said, shrugging a shoulder, and it was then I realized that while I was wandering aimlessly, Bella had been navigating us toward the park.

We stood on the sidewalk, my arms crossed over my chest and Bella's fingers in the chain-link fence, watching a little girl stand on top of the slide, backward, raising her arms.

"What's she doing?" I asked.

"Anything…being the queen," Bella said, staring at the kid, like she was demonstrating brain surgery.

"The queen of what?"

"Everything," Bella said. "When I was little, like, five? I used to like to stand on the highest point of anything anywhere. Our couch, the slide, or I'd stack boxes or milk crates, the kitchen table, chairs at school—whatever. I wanted to be the queen."

"What about now?"

Bella let out a dry, whisper of a laugh.

"Everything is shit," she said with a smile, staring at the kid. "When you're a kid, you don't know that, so you want to lord over everything, because everything is great. But I can't think of one thing I want to be the queen of."

The little girl smiled and shouted something in a shriek to the minions below her, and I noticed a couple of older kids to the far left, sitting on the top of a picnic table, smoking a bowl.

"There's something so refreshing about seeing someone little like that," Bella said, nodding to the little girl. "She has no idea how crappy things can be. About the world. As long as the sun is out and that slide is there, she knows the world is perfect. I miss that."

Then the kid on top of the slide looked directly at me and Bella, lifted her chubby little hand and flipped us the bird.

"Get outta here, pervert!" she shrieked, pointing right at me. "Pervert!"

"Are you talking to me?" I shouted back.

"Asshole!"

The kid couldn't have been older than six, the pot smokers started laughing and I let Bella lead me away.

"That was supposed to inspire hope?" I asked over her incessant laughter. "Kindergarteners are jaded and you can't even stop by a park without being a pervert anymore," I went on. "I swear, there's nothing good anywhere."

Bella kept on laughing, all the way until we turned the corner and the light of day had officially faded.

"Where were that brat's parents, anyway?" I went on.

"I think she can take care of herself just fine," Bella said, the burst into giggles again.

"Don't you see it?" I asked, pausing in my steps, and Bella turned to look at me, but kept walking, backward now.

"See what?"

"How terrible that was? How maybe it's not just me thinking everything is crappy, but that maybe everything is just crappy."

"Maybe."

"But you're laughing," I pointed out.

"Exactly. Most things will be what you make of them. I'd kill for some ice cream right now."

"What does that even mean?" I asked.

"It was pretty much a massive hint that you should take me out for ice cream."

"Not that—the most things will be what you make of them comment."

"Just…okay, yeah, the kid didn't have that child-like innocence or whatever. My intended point was lost…but it was funny. It was refreshing, so it was still something good that happened as a result, even if it wasn't the outcome I was going for. I still made it into something good."

She linked her arm through mine again and asked about how it was meeting Elvis Costello.

"When I was little, my mom had the record," she said, "the one with Alison on it."

"Mine did, too."

"Good. He was a genius, right?"

"Right."

"So, Edward Cullen, sing it. Alison."

"I can't even remember—are you fucking kidding me?" I asked, pausing in front of Crane's Cones, and the Out of Business sign glaring at us. "You can't even get an ice cream cone because of the crappy economy anymore."

And just like that, I was so fucking tired. My shoulders felt heavy, my head felt heavy and all I really felt like I could do was crawl into bed. It felt like being hit with a brick made of Ambien.

"You are always bitching," Bella said, rolling her eyes. "You are like the worlds biggest cry-baby."

"Look, this was nice. I'm going back to bed while I still have one. Can you get home or where ever you're going okay?"

Bella grabbed a hold of my sweater and turned, so she was in front of the Out of Business sign and I was in front of her. And then she started to sing. Loudly.

"Edward Cullllllen. I know this world is killing youuuuu."

"Are you Costello'ing me?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

She smiled and went up on her tip-toes, leaning in to me, then whispered.

"But my aim is true."

With that, she kissed the tip of my nose and turned to go, leaving me standing there in front of a broke down ice cream shop with Costello lyrics stuck in my head.

xxxx

I stood at the door to my apartment, freezing cold and exhausted, digging through my pockets…again. Like I somehow missed the brass key-ring with thirty nine useless keys the first four times I searched.

I slumped face first into the door and let my forehead bounce off of it seven or eight times, until my eyes closed and all I could do was stand there and breathe.

"Need these?"

I rolled my forehead on the metal door and blinked at Bella, holding my keys out on one finger.

"Did you steal my keys?"

"And then I followed you."

"Why do you do this?" I asked, not moving to take the keys, rolling my head back to forward, the palms of my hands on the door now.

"Usually," Bella said, leaning against the dank yellowing wall, "when I took things, they were from a really good place that I couldn't let go of. All that stuff from your store? I just wanted reminders—well. To bring that place with me everywhere."

"My keys?"

"You're a good place. And I wanted to have to rescue you. And I wanted to see you some more."

"You do harm in order to do good."

"That's the way with most things. Will you let me in?"

"Will you steal?"

"If I love the place, I might."

"It's violating to do that, you know. It's not right. It's—"

"I know. But maybe if you say I can come back anytime, I won't steal," she grinned, then sighed. "No. I won't take anything. I actually don't steal anymore at all. Maybe just your heart."

"Bella, I'm really not…you're…looking for someone I'm not. I can't be decent for anyone right now—"

"You have no idea what I'm looking for," she said, then thrust the keys at me, so I let her in.

After she looked through everything in my bookshelf while I lay down on my side in the bed, Bella sat down with her legs folded underneath her and twisted her fingers together.

"People who love you should hold you when you're at your worst," she declared.

"What?"

"You said your girlfriend left you. And I can tell. There are gaps in everything here. It's like a life interrupted."

I supposed it was. When Tanya left, she took everything she contributed, there were gaps in the DVD rack, the bookshelf, one half of the dresser top was cluttered with my stuff, the other side completely bare.

"Just in case no one ever said it, that's how it should be. People shouldn't leave when you go downhill. They should stay and hold you."

"I'm like a dead weight right now. I wouldn't expect anyone to go down with me," I said, my scratchy chin rubbing my balled up knuckles when I spoke.

"I have this guy, or whatever," Bella said, her eyes floating to the ceiling. "And he is always like, trying to set me on the right path…and sometimes, it's really good. I mean, I've needed the guidance before or whatever. But he's always trying to like…fix me? Or he's saying how my flaws are these big, therapy-necessary things and if I change this or that, I'll be happy."

"Like what? Stealing?"

"I haven't stole anything in a long time," she huffed. "But that was one thing, yeah. And I did correct that. I mean just…Bella, you don't cry about that, that's not cry worthy. Or Bella, wouldn't you be happier with sheets on the bed? Or Bella, if you could forgive your mom for leaving you'd be happier…and maybe all of that is true, right?" she asked.

I shrugged the shoulder I wasn't laying on.

"But you know what he's never done?"

"What?" I asked.

"He's never just held on. He's never just thought…maybe she is happy. And last week, it occurred to me…these aren't flaws I have. These are just things he doesn't like. And it's like, everything about me. So. Maybe the best thing to do is once in awhile, let people be and just hold them up without trying to do anything but…be there."

"Yeah," I scratched out over this building lump in my throat, because what she said was so true, I was literally going to cry.

"I used to steal and wet the bed," Bella said with an odd laugh. "I did weird shit like that as a kid, and eventually, my mom left because of it. I know, now, it was just her being a crappy parent. A little kid can't drive a good mother away. I know that. But still," she took in a deep breath, shaking her head a little, "she said, Bella…if you keep this crap up, no one is going to want to be your friend. No one is going to want you at a slumber party if you pee on their sheets and take their stuff," Bella sang, quietly recalling her mother. "And then she said she couldn't take it. She didn't get why I was so….off. And she left. And up until then, I had no idea love and acceptance were conditional. And so I don't ever, ever do that."

I lifted my arm and she quickly flopped underneath it, still curled up.

"If you're fucked up," she whispered, in to the v-neck of my shirt, "it's okay to stay that way for awhile."

"Okay."


	5. Chapter 5

My eyes opened in time with the slow tugs on my hair at the nape of my neck, one, two, three blurry blinks and I focused on Bella, hovering over me, pulling my hair in these little, arrhythmic pulls, too hard to be gentle, but too soft to be rough. Kind of like her.

"It's been hours and hours," she said, her own eyes puffed over with sleep, and there was a crease across her cheek from my sheets.

I blinked again and stretched my knuckles, suddenly acutely aware that I was balled up like a fetus and I just had a nap with a girl who should've been a stranger, but it didn't feel like having a stranger around at all.

She crawled to the edge of the bed and swung her legs over.

"I just thought I should let you know I'm going," she said, pulling her shoes on, then smiled softly over her shoulder. "I didn't take anything."

Bella got up and opened the window on the far side of the room, it had to be the middle of the night, but she acted like the sun was shining through and the temperature wasn't arctic; I didn't mind.

Bella put her hands on top of the windowsill, just for a quick second, then sighed and turned back to me.

I didn't want her to leave, it's just…I had nothing to offer if she stayed.

"There's a burrito in the freezer," I said.

"Say it," Bella whispered, then wedged her thumbnail between her teeth.

"Stay awhile?"

She nodded and walked out, I lowered my head again when I heard the whir of the freezer door opening, and was surprised, just for a second, that she heard me when I asked her to stay.

Twenty minutes later, we sat across from each other on my bed, Bella had the nuked, freezer burned burrito on a soggy paper plate in her lap, the fork at my lips.

"Do you miss her?" Bella asked. "The runaway girlfriend?"

"Not like I should. I feel like shit about that."

"That she left?" Bella asked, stabbing the fork into the burrito.

"No. That she was right to leave and that I don't miss her. How fucked up is it that I don't even miss her? That's what I feel bad about. I feel bad that I can't feel at all about it."

"Can't or don't?"

"She left me for a guy I don't ever want to be," I mused. "That's gotta mean something."

"Do you love her?"

"Not how I'm supposed to. No. Shit, I don't even think I liked her the past year. What about you? You and your guy who guides or whatever," I said, waving my hand.

"We haven't slept together in six months. I think I'm like…his obligation," Bella said, and I noticed her cheeks turn pink, and the tips of her ears when she swatted her hair back, shaking the whole thing off with a small laugh.

"Do you love him?"

"Not like I should," she repeated.

I nodded and she stuck a forkful of burrito in her mouth, swallowed hard and waved her hand around, so I caught her wrist, to keep from losing an eye on a fork tine.

"So why name the store Pull Out Kings?" Bella asked, flipping the subject. "Other than the obvious, you degenerate."

"That's all there is," I said, my lips pulling up into a smile. "Back when me and Em were kids, you know."

"Why not name it Just the Tip?" Bella asked, shoving a forkful of burrito toward my mouth.

I took the bite and swallowed.

"That would be a lie," I answered.

"The un-depressed you is lecherous flirt. I can see it under the fog," Bella said and I thought about that, then nodded, because yeah, I probably was.

"I think there's more to it, but I'll let it go in favor of letting this conversation veer more to the perversion persuasion," Bella said.

"I'm down."

"Do you remember the first time you saw boobs?"

"Of course," I said. "Madison Russo. Eighth grade, the Fall Festival Dance, in the parking lot. We made out and I asked if I could touch them."

"Oh god, did you do the whole awkward palm the boob thing?"

"No, I used my tongue to touch them. I never specified how I wanted to touch them," I grinned.

"You're a letch."

"What about you."

"I am, too."

"No, the first time you saw a dick?"

"God, it was my dads."

"Oh, shit, I'm…wow—"

"Not like that!" Bella cried, horrified, putting a hand over her face, peeking out between her fingers.

"Well!" I exclaimed.

"Well gah!"

"Well elaborate!"

"I will but just know I must think you're something special because re-living this is traumatic."

"Okay."

"Okay. I walked in on my dad while he was shaving."

"Okay."

"His…balls."

"Gah!"

"I know!"

"How old were you?"

"Like, nine and up until that point I didn't even know about differences. I totally thought he was deformed and trying to get rid of the excess with a razor. For like, an entire year. Then, the following year, when we could actually look each other in the eye again, I found his Hustler magazine stash and figured the entire thing out on my own."

She shrugged then used the edge of the fork to cut what was left of the food into two equal parts, then used her fingers to pick up her share.

"What do you do?" I asked. "I mean, when you're not stealing or checking out your dad's scrotum."

She gagged on a bite and kicked my knee.

"I have a degree in graphic design."

"Really? Where do you work?"

"Aeropostale."

"The low-rent Abercrombie and Fitch meets J Crew for pre-teens clothing store?"

"That's the one."

"Do you design their catalogues or…."

"No. I fold the sweaters."

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, I fucking love it," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's fine. I mean, I get paid. It's obviously wasn't where I thought I'd be at twenty-six with my fancy degree, but hell. Who am I to demand the world works favorably?"

"Because you worked for it to."

"So?" she asked, blinking.

"So, if you make a plan and work hard and put your heart into it, it's okay to be disappointed if—"

"The one thing you should put most of your effort into is to learn how to be happy. If you can do that, it won't matter what life shits on you. You have a back-up plan: happy. And remember, sometimes, it's okay to just be….fucked. That's all there is."

"Who pays your bills?"

"It's not always easy and sometimes, they go unpaid."

"Doesn't that upset you, I mean, while you're working on being happy? What if being happy to you just means being able to support yourself while doing something you love? What if there was only one thing and it's just fucking gone? What if—"

"You have anxiety issues."

"Yeah. Today, I do."

"But maybe not tomorrow."

"Maybe not. But that's the exact problem."

"What?"

"I'm terrified that…" I squinted my eyes, trying to find the right words, trying to make at least one person understand this particular brand of lost, "I'm going to wake up in five days for five months or five years or hell, fifty years and I'll still have no idea what comes next or what I'm doing. I hate not knowing how my life is supposed to be. I have no idea who I'm supposed to be or what I'm doing or what I'm going to do. I'm here, in this spot and I have no idea where I'm supposed to go next or if I do make a move, where it will land me or even how I'm going to pay the electric bill next month and no one…no one ever just tells you; like, there is no sign from above telling you what is the right thing or the wrong thing or just reminding you to breathe. And that is so fucking exhausting, it's so just draining to have this whole entire life and not know what to do with it or how to deal with it. I'm tired."

I blew out a breath and licked my lips, then shook my head like a fool while she stared at me.

"I think that sounds pretty fucking exciting."

"What?"

"It sounds full of possibility."

"That's so cliché, Bella."

"So what? You could move to a mountain top or in a hut near the ocean. You could be a…a…fire place builder or an author or a movie critic or one of those people who puts letters on billboards or a barber, you could go anywhere or do anything—"

"I did what I wanted and it didn't work."

"So move on."

"To what? Fucking Aeropostale?"

She flinched back and her knees curled in a fraction.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Right. Fuck off. At least I'm not crying into my pillow with a yellow bracelet on my wrist because I can't get over my entitlement issues. The world doesn't owe you shit."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm…you work. You have a job. I'm actually jealous."

"I'm a damn good folder of sweaters."

"I bet you are."

"I am."

"Good."  
"That was hurtful."

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention. You have to forgive me, you stole from me."

"Get over that already!"

"You get over the Aeropostale thing."

"It's too fresh."

"I didn't mean it."

"Yes you did, you judgmental, pretentious prick with your cool indie music store and your Cobain sweater with your designer brooding and your too-hip-to care beard."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

She tucked her hair behind her ears again and stared up at the ceiling, I lay back down in the bed.

"You're way too easily defeated," Bella said, and I lifted my arm again, and she fit right back in there, right up against me again.

"I'm sorry," I whispered again, desperate not to break or hurt one more thing.

"It's funny almost. I'm sick of being told how to fix it and you're looking for someone to tell you how to fix it," Bella said, then turned over, so she was the little spoon. "What are the chances?"

"Of what?" I asked with a yawn.

"Of us."

"Us?"

"Us. For tonight, anyway. I'll stay by you, you stay by me and tonight, it'll be okay."

"Okay," I told her, because it was.

"Can I try something?"

"What?"

She turned over again, lifting my arm, then brushing away a thick lock of hair that had caught between her lips.

"What?" I whispered again, my eyes flickering from her eyes to her lips.

"You know what," she whispered, then leaned down, to where my head lay against the pillow, my body in the perfect bed notch, and kissed me.

It was a soft kiss, softer than I would've expected, more familiar to me than any other kiss, but at the same time, foreign, because I cannot recall ever kissing someone who I'd bared so much of myself to.

I let her in my mouth because she was already in my head; because I shared with her all of that, we ought to share a kiss like this; because she was really _so_ pretty and because she was good to waste time with; because she didn't get me, she didn't understand at all, but she stayed anyway.

When she pulled away, she didn't look me in the eye, rather pressed her cheek against mine, I could hear her swallow and then shift her hips on mine, against where I was hard.

"I'd like to," she said. "I mean, I want to. If you do."

I nodded against her cheek; not quite recalling the last time I felt so human or motivated to do anything, but this, I really wanted to do.

"I know you're a king at pulling out, but I like to use something—"

"I don't have anything," I said, but wrapped my arms around her waist, holding her down to me.

"I do. Don't judge."

"Just a little," I said, with a laugh, then, "no, seriously. It's good. It's a good thing."

And it was.

There is this faint but definitive line between fucking and love making, I can't define it, I don't know that anyone can, but as certain I am as the grass is green, I know this sentiment is real. This line that Bella and I writhed on was made of undeniable but unknowing meaning. But it was meaningful despite the fact that I didn't know what it meant, other than this act, this girl, this wet and ridiculous dance on this bed in this notch are not just another big empty. Even when she left, even if I never saw her again, even if I didn't know her birthday or her favorite color or where she would go next or where she came from, this meant _something_.


	6. Chapter 6

The week past much the same. Frozen food and circular conversation with secrets dashed in; and not once did I outwardly question what the hell we were doing.

In my mind, I went over it constantly, but I was chicken-shit about bringing it up. Scared she'd leave; scared she'd stay when I said what I was actually thinking.

The truth was I had no idea what to do with her. If we could've stayed holed up in that apartment forever, it would've been great, but we couldn't, especially because I would only be able to afford it for another month.

But I didn't say that.

I didn't ask her once about why she never left; odd as it was that she didn't. The girl didn't make any calls, she left once to go out for bagels, other than that, she showered in my shower. She wore my clothes and slept in my bed and cooked can soup over my stovetop and watched terrible PBS specials on my television. And I didn't mind.

On the seventh night, we were in my bed, Bella lay her head in my lap and I put my fingers in her shower-wet tangles while she yelled out the wrong answers in reply to Jeopardy.

"I think Alex Trebek is sexy."

"You're a freak."

"It's his intelligence. And that way he gets cocky about having all the right answers on his little card," Bella said, her cheek shifting on my thigh.

"You're still a freak."

"He's handsome. Tell me one of yours."

"Uh. Salma Hayek."

"That's not an odd crush. That's an understandable, universal crush."

"Ok. When I was a little kid I wanted Prairie Dawn to be my girlfriend."

"Who's that?"

"That little pink and blonde muppet on Sesame Street?"

"Telly?"

"No, Telly was fuschia and a…monster? Prairie Dawn was the thing who was always writing plays and stuff and then she'd get all mad—"

"The anal retentive puppet? And I'm a freak?" Bella asked, sitting up, flicking her wet hair on me.

"I was like five."

"But still," Bella said, knotting her hair on top of her head, then coming back down when I reached for her.

"Shut up. Go back to smut-thoughts about Trebek."

"Okay. Edward?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you want me to like, wear more pink blush or—"

"Shut up."

"I could hum the ABC's when I blow you or—" she got cut off in a shriek when I flipped her over and smiled, the tip of my nose touching hers.

"I'll take silent fellatio for five hundred," I told her, then she slipped beneath me and took my pants with her.

Early the next morning, I checked my email for the first time in way too long, then immediately put my head in my hands.

"What?" Bella asked, my toothbrush hanging from her mouth.

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

"You established that."

"There's a shit ton of surplus left from the shop that has to be stored until it can be sold or repo'd or whatever. Emmett gives the keys back today."

"So?"

"So we have nowhere to put it and neither of us can afford that kind of storage. He should just fucking burn it all."

"At least you're not dramatic about it."

"You just…nevermind."

"Just what?"

"You don't get it."

"You didn't explain it."

"I tried. I can't."

"What? Worst case scenario, it sits there and the bank or who ever owns the building now takes care of it."

"We can't just let it go, it's got value…and it means a lot. To me."

"You just said he should burn it."

"You just—"

"Don't get it. Because you're so emotional and complex and no one can get you. Right. Like I don't get you? Like I don't fit perfect right there in that little spot on the bed, right under your arm—"

"Nothing fits with me!" I snapped. "I don't have any shape to even fit with!"

"What are you saying right now?"

"I'm saying…what are you doing?"

"You don't even know what you're doing, so—"

"Really, what are you doing? You've been here for over a week, you didn't leave to go to Aeropostale, you didn't call anyone to let them know where you were, you don't have a home to go check on? Or food getting bad or something? Seriously. What are you doing?" I asked, my eyes narrowing, just picking, just because I didn't want to have to pick myself apart.

Bella's face went red then white, and she backed away, clapping her hands slowly.

"Kudos, Edward. You figured me out," she said, her voice trying so hard to have a sharp edge, but it was wobbly instead. "No one gives a damn where I am or how long I've been gone. You could plaster this mug on a milk carton and no one would recognize it. Idiot. No."

"Bullshit. You're all over me about my shit, but you're definitely hiding from something out there."

"That's…" she sighed with an ironic laugh and kicked my pants off, then searched for her own.

"That's what? That's the truth?" I prodded.

She pulled her own pants on, then stuffed her feet into the shoes that had been on the floor near the foot of my bed all week.

"Are you wanted for stealing? Did your life coach boyfriend bail or something? Let's talk about your shit for awhile."

"You're so off about all of it," Bella said, grabbing her bag from the top of my dresser.

"I don't think I am. I think you—"

"This is it, right? The ultimate Pull Out King, Edward Cullen!" she said, making a sweeping gesture with her hand.

"What are you even talking about?" I asked, flopping back on the bed.

"That's what you do," she said, then actually kicked at my feet. "You pull out. You open your email, the first thing you do is lay in that bed, pull right out. Your girl leaves and your store goes under, and you try _to pull out of life_."

"I didn't. It just didn't matter—you have no idea what you're talking about—"

"As soon as you're done or as soon as something is done with you, it just doesn't matter, you just pull right out. And now you're doing it to me. You're a coward and your own ambition scares you."

"Don't you have a shift at—"

"Yes! Aeropostale! I do!," she thundered, red in the face and swinging her bag around. "And maybe if I show up on time, they'll promote me to sweater _fucking _management! And it will be something and it will be okay! Because I'm not scared!"

"This is so fucking ridiculous," I laughed. "Thanks for the week. Thanks for stealing my shit. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," she huffed and went for the door, but paused and turned around.

"What?"

"For the record, I didn't stay because I was _hiding_ from anything. I stayed to hide out with _you_. I stayed because I thought I belonged here with you."

She turned and left.

I thought I'd let my eyes close and lay in the notch, but I couldn't sleep.

It was almost getting funny, really. It was like a game of how much I could completely fuck up and I was winning by a landslide.

It's just…the other crap fell to the wayside, kind of, because all I could really do was lay on my side and wonder where she went and what words I could say to bring her back, but none would come.


	7. Chapter 7

Too bright and too early the following week, I was standing with Emmett, Rosie and Alice in what used to be The Pull Out Kings, but was now pretty much just a colorful but rundown looking warehouse with debris and crates everywhere.

I sipped the beer Emmett put into my hand and kicked a fraying wire aside.

"Where's Janie?" Emmett asked, smirking like a smug jack-off.

"My fuck ups are so funny," I said, raising the bottle to him before sipping again.

"Well. At least you showed up," Rosie said, sitting down on a crate, hand on her tummy.

I refrained from asking her how in the hell she planned on saving that baby from…life. I'd done it once before, it didn't go over well.

"Why wouldn't I show up?" I asked, and all of them stared at me, the only movement was Alice, tugging on her hat.

"I thought you were dead," Emmett said, hoisting a box to his shoulder. "But Rosie said to give you time."

"I wanted to pick out a nice stone and plot. Something on a hill to represent your downslide," Alice said.

"You," I said, pointing a finger at her, "are always very considerate."

"Thank you. And now I'm going to blow your mind. Prepare yourself."

"Okay."

"I'm officially Jasper's apprentice," Alice announced, and we all took a turn gaping at her. "And I need practice, so under Jasper's tutelage, I'm going to act as the accountant for the rest of this mess and I'll do it for free."

"Accountants take on apprentices?" I asked.

"Seriously?" Emmett asked her, dropping the box to wrap his arms around Alice.

"Oh, Alice—thank god," Rosalie said, getting to her feet. "That's huge for us right now."

"You're going to be an accountant?" I asked.

"Well, yeah," Alice said.

She was wearing a lace tutu over neon green leggings and she'd drawn a spider web at the outer corner of her eye in blue make-up. There was no way Alice actually wanted to be an accountant.

"There's no way you want to do this," I said.

"It's not about what you want to do sometimes," Alice said. "I'm good with numbers and it'll pay a few bills until I can…what? Be Blondie or Siouxsie Sioux? I mean, it'll be good I think. I'll be with Jasper and it'll be great."

Rosie glared at me and Emmett scratched his eyebrow blew out a breath.

"I think you're right. You'll be brilliant," Rosie said, beaming at Alice.

"I'm going to work for my uncle in construction," Emmett said. "He's offering full health coverage."

I nodded and swallowed.

"He could get you in. I asked," Emmett said carefully, like I was going to just whip out a pistol and stick it in my mouth.

"It's not how we thought," is all I said with a shrug. "It's just not the way it was going to be."

"No. But it's how it is," Emmett said, picking the box up again. "And really, we're all lucky. We all have something."

"To have something."

Alice and Emmett picked up a box each and headed out to the U-Haul, which would take the crap to Rosalie's parents garage.

Rosie squatted down in front of a box and started flipping through albums, her eyes glassy with tears.

"I'm so fucking emotional," she said, smiling down at The Cure. "He hurts over it, too, you know."

"I know."

"No. Like, really hurts. If we didn't have this kid on the way, he probably would have been laying in bed with you all week."

"Hah. There wouldn't have been room."

"She's back?" Rosie asked, her head snapping up.

"No, she's pissed. I…said the wrong things. I couldn't just—"

"But she called."

"I don't think she even has my phone number."

"Tanya? Of course she-"

"No," I said, surprised. I hadn't thought of her at all.

"Someone else? Did you meet a girl? Is that where you've been?" Rosie asked, now the tears were falling over on to her cheeks.

"It's already over."

"Why?"

"Look at me. I'm…."

"I'm having a baby with a guy in the same position. And I'm happy."

I smiled at her and she smiled back, wiping her face and going back to the records.

"Edward?"

"What?"

"It didn't work out," Rosalie said, looking over her shoulder and around the place. "It was a helluva ride but it didn't work. But that doesn't mean you stop trying to be….to find…you know. The place."

"What place?"

"The place where you do belong."

"It was—"

"It wasn't here. If it was here, you'd be here."

"I'm over fate bullshit speak, Rosie. But thank you."

"Then I guess you would've busted ass to stay," Rosalie said, throwing her hands up in exasperation, "Sometimes shit works, sometimes it doesn't, so deal with it or go back to bed!"

I wasn't even mad at her. I was getting exasperated with myself.

"I can't even get beyond myself to care about anything. Nothing even…well."

"Well what?" Rosie asked, then narrowed her eyes. "Why did you get out of bed today?"

"We had to do this. I couldn't sleep anyway, this girl is in my head—"

"Where did you want to be, Edward?"

"I just…this girl, it's just on my mind."

"Well, that's something you care about then," Rosie said.

"I do…like, I really do. But I can't even get my own shit together and you know all that crap about getting yourself straight before you can be with someone or whatever."

"Nah. The good ones stay even when you're completely fucked."

I blinked at Rosie as that sounded exactly like Bella.

"I said shitty things and she walked out. I mean, it's good she did. I don't have anything going. And she's full of like…she's so vivid, Rosie and I can't even make myself move."

"You're standing here in a dead end," she said flatly. "You found something and now you're doing what you do. Pulling right out because you're so wrapped up in your own garbage, but Edward, sometimes, people want to help you with your crap. Or just sit next to you while you deal with it."

"Why…would anyone want to do that?" I asked, and god. It was so pathetic. It was so pitiful and insecure sounding I couldn't even look her in the eye.

"Because if it's where you belong it's where you belong, regardless of circumstance," Rose shrugged. "Edward. Where do you want to be?"

"There's one place I want to be," I said, nodding my head, slowly getting it.

And there were so many I-don't-knows and I-don't-cares and even though I was barely motivated to even breathe…there was one thing I was certain I wanted.

"Where?"

"Aeropostale."

"What?" Rosalie asked, clearly confused. "I was going with the girl-as-savior thing. You want tween-wear, crappy sweaters?"

"Well-folded tween-wear crappy sweaters," I amended, then handed the pregnant girl my beer so I could get to Eastgate Mall, to an Aeropostale store and speak with the sweater-folder; and if two years ago or two weeks ago someone had told me that that is where I belong, I absolutely would not have believed them.

But, apparently there is truth to the old saying truth is stranger than fiction, because on my way there, I knew without a shadow of a doubt, my place, my person, my notch was a former kleptomaniac sweater-folder who harbored a crush on Alex Trebek.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx

"Finding everything okay?"

There was a girl who looked to be about fifteen years old standing in front of me, fingering her earring, with about seven big plastic badges hanging around her neck, one of which read her name, Bree. And she was wearing pink fleece that said Aeropostale on the front.

"No," I told her. "Is Bella working today?"

"Why?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I need to speak with her."

"Is this about a return? If you don't have a receipt I can do in store credit, but not for clearance items—"

"No, not a return. Well, kind of a return. Look, when does she work next?"

"She doesn't."

"Did she get fired?"

"She quit."

"Can you give me her number?"

"Gross, stalker. I can get you the number to security."

"It's not like that. I'm her…she….I'm her boyfriend—"

"You are not Tyler."

"Who?"

"Tyler you are not. I'm going to call the police, this is weird," she said, taking a step back.

"Bree, wait," I said, holding my hands up in surrender.

"How do you know my name?"

"Your badge."

"Oh. Right."

"I'm in love with her, okay?"

"Are you the puppet porn guy?" she asked, her eyes widening in recognition. That would be the one defining thing about me Bella went and shared. "The pink puppet freak!"

"I don't have a puppet fetish."

"It _is_ you!"

"Hah. Yes, it's all very funny. Now that we established that I know Bella, can you please help me out?"

"No, you prick. You broke her heart and she's a really good person."

"I want to tell her I'm sorry."

Bree chewed on her lip and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Freshman year, my friend Vanessa got her heart broken by this guy named Riley, right? But he would constantly text me and write me these notes, saying talk to her for me. Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I love her. And so, like, who doesn't want true love to work out? So I helped. I convinced her to take him back. Know what happened like, two weeks later?"

"No?"

"He fingered Jessica Stanley in the auditorium."

"I….am not going finger anyone else."

"The point is I tried re-matchmaking before and all it got me was a brokenhearted friend and a crap load of drama."

"This isn't high school."

"Grow up, slacker man. High school is everything."

"What? Look…I just want to make it right," I shrugged, then decided I'd level with a fifteen year old girl in the mall. "I'm fucked, kid. Okay? But the only thing that is good about my life right now, the only place I can even imagine being is with Bella. So please."

"I should be a side character to Reese Witherspoon right now," she sighed. "This is so rom-com."

"What? I don't even….look. Will you help me?"

"Her almost-was-ex or whatever Tyler is helping _her_. She quit this morning and had her bags with her. He bought them a couple of bus tickets. Greyhound. She said she's looking for her place or whatever."

"To where?"

"No idea. But they were Greyhound tickets."

I nodded, my thumbnail between my teeth, my shoulders sagging.

"Okay."

"That's it? Okay?" she asked. "Aren't you going to go get the girl?"

"I…yes. Yes. I'm going to go get the girl," I said, and this sound came out of me, a sound I hadn't heard with a feeling I hadn't felt since…maybe since forever. If I had to say what it sounded like, I'd say it sounded a lot like a laugh with hope, mixed with something amazing: wonderment.

"Go!"

"I'm going," I said, and just like that, I was going, running, really, with a pounding heart and an awkward smile on my face and everything.

Down the sidewalk, my body went in this ridiculous gait or jog, and I was absolutely propelled, all of the sudden I was sprinting like a lunatic for something that I wanted so much; suddenly I had boundless energy and so, I ran.


	8. Chapter 8

I couldn't let the one thing I was sure about, the one thing I knew I wanted, just slip through the cracks of my neurosis, so I went after her, even though I got that terrible pain in my side and my lungs felt hot and sticky and the sweat got so bad I actually took my sweater off and bunched it in my hand, running the entire time.

It was less than a mile to the bus depot, but by the time I got there I decided that running had been a terrible idea.

"Shit," I panted, bracing my hands on my knees, the sweater dangling to the sidewalk. I paced back and forth, hunched over and thinking how much it would suck to drop dead after just finding some clarity, and that Bella would never even know.

Bella.

"Bella!" I wheezed.

She was straddling a metal bench outside of the building, a few shabby sacks at her feet, tortoise shell sunglasses on her eyes and she was blowing a big, pink bubble, before she snapped it in her teeth.

"What the hell are you doing?" she called.

"Having a heart attack," I told her, breathless.

"You're out. And you took the sweater off," Bella commented, swinging one leg over the bench while I straightened up.

"Listen," I told her, when we were toe to toe. "I totally stalked you down here. I was a dick—"

"That's an understatement. How did you find me?"

"Bree at Aeropostale."

"You went to Aeropostale?"

"I can't let you—is that him?" I asked, looking over Bella's shoulder at some tall bro walking toward us with an obvious agenda.

Bella turned and stepped back, and the guy put his arm around her shoulder, staring at me. I had at least three inches on him, but he was one of those guys. He was one of those guys who had a cool hair cut and an easy smile. He was one of those guys who had a job and confidence and knew people who knew people, he was the kind of guy a girl would see on Facebook and "friend." He looked like one of those assholes who had a million pictures of himself and his fellow bros at the beach or on a boat and wore cowboy hats ironically and drank designer vodka.

And if it were any other girl I was after, I would've walked away, because it made no logical sense that I could possibly be the better choice.

But in my estimation, I was the only choice. I belonged with her, so that had to mean she belonged with me.

"Ty, this is Edward—"

"Oh hell no," Tyler said. "Get lost."

"Suck one, _bro_."

"No. No way," Bella said, putting her hands up. "No one is doing this."

"Let's go," Tyler said, pulling her away, but she slipped out from underneath his arm.

"Gimme one second," Bella said, turning to me.

"Thank you," I told her. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm…sorry."

Bella lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head and sighed, just as a bus pulled in with a rush and a hiss.

"That's it? You're sorry. Why did you chase me down here, Edward?"

"Bella. Let's go. We're boarding soon," Tyler said, picking up her bags.

"Calm it, _dude_," I called back.

"Don't do that," Bella hissed.

"I can't believe you ever seriously considered that guy," I told her.

"I can't believe you of all people showed up here just to insult me some more. I have to go."

"No, just—"

"Bella," Tyler said, nodding his head, her bags strapped all over him. "We talked about this. You need a fresh start. We need to go away and get right together."

"Is he telling you what to do?" I asked pointedly.

"He's…trying to help. He found me kind of fucked up. Some jerk broke my heart."

"I didn't mean—"

"Bella. Let's go."

There was the squeal and hiss of the bus, the doors opened and Bella flinched.

"I'm—"

"Look, guy. You have no idea what this girl needs—

"Excuse me?" Bella interjected, slipping out from his grip. "What _this girl needs_?"

"Bella. You wanna stay here with this guy? He's got nothing and he tossed you out of his nothing. What're you gonna do? Steal to support him?"

"Fuck you," I laughed, pulling my sweater back on.

"We're leaving now," Tyler said, grabbing her elbow.

"Don't get on that bus, Bella," I said. "Please. Don't."

"Why, though? What's here?" she asked weakly. "You gotta say it."

"Get on that bus, Bella," Tyler said.

"Give me a damn second!" she huffed, then looked at me. "What? Talk."

"I'm trying to just…I didn't mean to be an asshole—"

"Well, you were. And my bus is boarding. So."

"This guy is so wrong for you," I said with a weak laugh.

"And you're right? He never once let me walk out like that. He's uprooting his whole life for me and you didn't even leave your apartment and that was okay. I was okay with what you were going through."

"I don't have anything to…there is no reason you should've wanted me," I said lowly, trying to block Tyler from my periphery.

"There_ is_ no reason! Sometimes, people just belong together. It doesn't matter what you have to offer, it matters who you are! And you still don't get it."

She turned around and Tyler stepped toward the bus, so I grabbed her belt loop and twirled her back around, eye to eye, toe to toe.

"I have made so many mistakes, big huge ones that have altered the course of my entire life. I have no idea what I want to do or where I want to be. I've been not moving, not doing a damn thing because I couldn't care and I am sure of nothing," I said, "except for you. You can't leave because I belong with you and you belong with me and whatever else happens or doesn't, whatever else I decide or don't, I know I belong with you. I want you and I need you and I'm sure of you. You make me want to wake up and step out and try to get right and I know that even if I never do, it'll be okay, because no matter what else happens for me or doesn't, you're where I'm headed anyway. So don't get on that bus. It'll all go wrong if you do. Because I can deal with other mistakes and anything else going wrong, but if you get on that bus, _everything_ will be wrong. If you stay here, with me, everything will somehow be okay. And if you do get on that bus, I'm coming, too. Because I _do_ get it, you're my place."

And then Tyler punched me in the face and I saw stars on the concrete, before I saw nothing at all.

I woke up and the bus was gone.

The pain was immediate, though.

"Shit," I hissed, curling up and holding my eye, right there, in front of the bus station.

And it had come to this: I was an unemployed suicide watched loser with a black eye from being sucker punched after pouring my pussy-heart out to a former kleptomaniac Aeropostale employee who had indeed stolen my heart and possibly my argyle socks. All of this in a heap in front of a bus station.

I tossed my head back and laughed, through the throbbing of my eye, my head, my lungs and my heart, I laughed, and decided I'd cry when I got home.

And then two denim covered knees were in front of me and I stopped with a rasp.

Bella plunked down in front of me and then smashed a bag of frozen vegetables on my face.

"For the swelling," she said, holding the bag, not too gentle, on my face. But then she sighed and brushed some sweaty hair from my eye.

I shifted the bag and looked at her looking at me for about five seconds.

"Where did you get these?"

"The store around the corner," she said, shifting her gaze.

"Bella."

"I had no cash! And you're welcome."

"Did you just leave me here knocked out cold?"

"Well. You're really heavy. And I did stop some guy from pissing on you. So. You have to forgive that. I didn't get on the bus."

"You have to forgive me, too."

"I think I just did."

I scooted in closer the same time Bella did, until she put her head on my shoulder and I put rested my chin right there on top of her head, in our spot.

"What now?" I asked her.

"Now I put my twenty percent discount at Aeropostale to use. Tyler just took off with all of my stuff."

"We're so fucked," I laughed, and for once, it was good, to not care.

"I know," Bella said. "Isn't it wild?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I hate working construction. It's soul sucking and it's exhausting and my hands are rough and my back is sore and like four days a week I'm required to step foot into Home Depot, but at night, after I shower, Bella stands in the doorway and tells me my body has never looked better.

And then it's okay.

Our new place is smaller, the carpet smells like yogurt and cat pee and the pipes squeal and you can only use the hot water for exactly ten minutes before it turns to ice and this old couple lives across the hall from us and for some reason that Bella and I have yet to figure out despite our best spying efforts, they leave an open jar of pickles in the hallway outside their door. Like, constantly. But sometimes, I'll walk in to the kitchen or the living room also known as the bedroom, and Bella will be standing there wearing only my tool belt and say something so ridiculous, like, "I seem to be missing a screw," or "I hope I have enough caulk for my crack," and that crappy apartment turns into Buckingham Palace.

We play records she insists she didn't steal, she streams music I'm pretty sure she pirated, she sings all of my favorite songs and we share burritos and ideas of the things we want and the places we'd like to go or how we want our first son to turn out, when we get it together enough to actually have a kid. Or maybe we'll just get a dog. It's all up in the air.

We dream, I guess, of things far off and unrealistic, like what we'll do when Alex Trebek knocks on the door and begs Bella to run away with him or meeting Jim Morrison, but also of things we can actually make happen, like new fluffy towels or a vacation to the ocean or a weekend of nothing but sex and crappy television.

Sure, we're this uncertain mess about everything from what cereal to buy to how much do we feed the goldfish; we once gathered nickels and dimes from the couch cushions to buy a bag of Cheetohs and my dad taped a KFC application to our door after I borrowed another hundred bucks from my parents, before the construction job. But when you know you're on the right path, you just keep pushing forward, and if you're lucky, you do it with a silly girl watches Jeopardy for foreplay.

And it's not where I thought I'd be.

I projected a marriage with Tanya and retiring from a record store, and god, I thought I wanted it. Back then, I didn't know I belonged elsewhere, but I'm relieved I got here anyhow.

And ok, so it's a construction job and we live in an area I wouldn't even send Tyler out in alone, but the thing is, none of that actually matters in the long run. Now I know, down to my very bones that cover my heart and even straight through it, I _know_ that this is where I'm going and where I want to be. All of the other crap is just the circumstances, the pitfalls and hoops of life you jump over and through. The actual _life_ part I got right; because where ever we go or don't, where we land or wind up, we'll go there together, and I will always be exactly where I belong.


End file.
